


Andraste's "Mabari"

by AkiRah



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, I don't think that's a spoiler everyone knows Andraste dies, Shortly before Tevinter burns her alive, Song fic, The relationship is pretty subtle I think, and then she gets burned alive, andraste swears a lot, because coveting another man's wife is bad enough, it's worse if one of those men is a god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The song "Andraste's Mabari", such a favorite in Ferelden taverns, may have more to it than most guess. Fenris claims that mabari were originally bred in Tevinter and when the magisters came to Ferelden during an invasion some of the dogs defected and joined local tribes. The song is accurate, the Mabari was Shartan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Andraste's "Mabari"

Minrathous loomed.

A few days march, if even that, and it would be finished one way or another. The fight he had started when he killed his master and escaped into the wilds with all the others who would follow. He’d taken the aspect of the wolf, inspiration drawn from a broken elvhen shrine, the words on which were faded and even if they hadn’t been, at the time Shartan--kennel slave to Amladaris--could not read.  

But he could feel meaning in those words. He traced his fingers over the engravings and threw his head back to howl at the black sky.

The Imperium would pay.

The memory warmed him against the gentle, nighttime chill. Shartan finished the fletching on an arrow and took smug comfort in the knowledge that _tonight_ the Magisters felt the fear they’d struck into so many of his people before.

“ _Rajelan_?”

“Yes?” Shartan set his bow aside and turned. He was still uncomfortable being called the leader, but he was the obvious choice and he wouldn’t shirk from the responsibility.

“The _shem_ \--er--Andraste’s having another fit.”

Shartan exhaled rose to standing. “I’ll see to it. Keep your eyes peeled, we have no way of knowing if the magisters will try a preemptive strike tonight.”

“Things have been quiet, Rajelan.”

“I know. It sets my teeth on edge.” Shartan grimaced to make his point. “They’re up to something. I can smell it.”

His lieutenant chuckled. “ _Vindirtha, Fenathe_.”

 

* * *

_You know Andraste's old mabari._

_He don't show up in the chant._

_And if you ask those holy sisters,_

_Well, they'll say Andraste can't_

* * *

 

Shartan waded through the clucking, whispering devout and fought to avoid comparing them to chickens. The humans and elves, though a single army, segregated themselves. There was too much distrust on either side.

He felt his skin prickle, too many human eyes on his arms, the scars and the chip in his pointed ear. Even when he <em>knew</em> they weren’t talking about him, he could almost hear the whispers about his tattoos. He looked fierce, violent.

That had been the point.

If he struck _half_ the fear into the Magisters as he did some of Andraste’s faithful, Shartan would have felt it a job well done.

He paused by a tent and grabbed a bowl of water and a clean white rag. Tending to her after a fit was something of a regular occurrence.

Shartan didn’t believe in Andraste’s _Maker_ , which made him unpopular with the humans, but he answered derogatory comments about her character from the other elves harshly.  He did a cursory look around for Maferath, but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t find him. The shemlen and Shartan saw eye to eye on nothing _but_ Andraste. Her daughters were young enough that they were in Ferelden still and Maferath’s sons were out on scouting parties most likely.

“She’s in consultation with the Maker.” A hand came up to stop Shartan’s advance.

“Move, Havard.” Shartan squared his shoulders and raised his chin in challenge. “If it’s a war meeting I need to be there.”

 

* * *

_Have had some big old smelly wardog._

_But all Ferelden knows it right:_

_Our sweet Lady needed someone_

_Who would warm her feet at night._

* * *

 

Havard opened his mouth to argue further, the way he usually  did, but Shartan cut him off with a growl. “Move or I will move you, human. Last time she bit herself.”

“I--” Havard pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded once. “She’s been quiet tonight.”

“That’s good. Go see if you can find her husband or his brats, someone should be with her tonight.”  

Shartan shoved passed Havard and started up the short hill to where Andraste was sitting. He settled beside her, back pressed to the tree and studied her features.

“You’ve been crying again.” His usual growl dropped away from his voice and his expression softened. Andraste turned her wide brown eyes to look and him, cheeks glistening. Shartan huffed a tired chuckle and reached over to brush the tears from her eyes. “Let me see your arms.”

Obediently, Andraste let go of her biceps and let him inspect the bruises. Her nails had bit into the skin and he clicked his tongue before starting to wipe the blood away. “The magisters have enough blood, you don’t need to do their work for them.”

“It’s nothi-- _fokkit_! Not so rough!” She growled at him as he started to clean the cuts. “The bruises--”

“Are no where near as bad as some you’ve had.”

“Ass.” Andraste chuckled a little, the mortal contact and the hint of pain pulling her out of her trance.

Shartan smiled and shook his head. “Ridiculous woman, bleeding yourself before we even _get_ to Minrathous, I know you’re impatient but really.”

“ _I'm_ the impatient one, Shartan? _Du fokkit._ After you charged head first into the skirmish line two days ago. You’re an _archer_.”

“You gave me a sword and you were out numbered.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Do you think they’ll remember how much you swear?”

“I hope so.”

 

* * *

_And there's Andraste's mabari_

_By the Holy Prophet's side._

_In the fight against Tevinter,_

_That dog would never hide._

* * *

 

The blood cleared away, Andraste turned her gaze back up to the heavens. “How long has it been, Shartan?”

“Four years since we found each other.” His hand settled on the dirt and he smiled when she reached over and covered it with her own. Shartan turned his palm beneath hers and his fingers laced through hers. Andraste’s breath evened out as she began to calm. She squeezed his hand in hers and tilted her head back against the tree trunk beside his. The pale hollow of her throat bared to the starry sky.

“It will all be over soon,” she said softly. “ _Agmæagne wÿd mi_.”

Shartan huffed a dry breath and tightened his fingers around hers. “ _Sule’bell’ana, ara Iseain_.”

It was always a comfort when her episodes passed and she was once again the woman he’d sworn to fight beside. Vibrant and passionate, fierce as the fire on her banners.

She laughed. “You’re always so serious, Shartan.”

“Says the _Blessed Prophet,_ ” he snorted. “It is serious, you know.”

“Somber is not the same as solemn.”

“Says the woman with tears on her cheeks.”

“Maferath fears we’re stretched too thin, that a final assault on Minrathous will cost us everything. He wants us to turn back and claim what we’ve already won before we lose it all.”

Shartan snorted. “Your _husband_  still thinks this is a dispute over land.” He was tempted to ask how Maferath was handling the people who called Andraste the “Bride of The Maker”, but the subject of Andraste’s self-imposed divinity was an uncomfortable one.

And divine or otherwise it was all the same to him.

He fought for a homeland, for freedom for his people, and quietly for her.

“Maferath is a good man.” Andraste’s hand left his and she used it to push off the ground. “And he isn’t wrong. We may be too far extended to hold Ferelden and Orlais if Tevinter retaliates.”

“I would rather lose it all than stop now,” Shartan snapped.

Andraste nodded. “I know.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “ _God næght_ , dearest friend.”

Shartan rolled his eyes and snorted. “Sleep well.”

 

* * *

_They say the Maker sent him special,_

_Always loyal, without pride,_

_So he could be the sworn companion_

_Of the Maker's Holy Bride._

* * *

 

He watched her walk to her tent, pausing to assure the faithful that she was fine. Havard was smiling again, his expression bright as he filled her in on what Maferath’s sons had learned in the woods. She had that effect on people.

Shartan stood and dumped the water out, wringing the towel dry and rolling his eyes as he imagined what sort of insane stories the faithful would come up with about this tree now that Andraste, Bride of The Maker, had bled on it. They would claim the bark could heal the injured and never pause to realize that the tree was _willow_ and so  _of course it would_.

Maybe, Shartan mused, if his own Gods hadn’t been silent he would have been more understanding, but the only God who had ever spoken to him was the Dread Wolf, and he didn’t ask for gifts or reverence.

Fen’harel asked only for action, and action Shartan could do.  

Shartan set the bowl back where he’d grabbed it from and walked back to the elvhen encampment.

“How’s the _shem_ prophet?” one of his captains asked. Shartan shot her a glare and she brought both hands up to apologize. “Sorry, _Rajelan,_ it’s automatic.”

“I can understand the compulsion.” He settled onto a stool in front of the fire. “She’s fine. Just nerves before the final push, I imagine most of the army feels the same way.”

“And you, _Rajelan?_ ”

“My only anxiety is that we’re not neck deep in slaver blood already. Get some sleep before your watch, Captain.”

“Ser!”

 

* * *

_Oh, that dog, he guards Andraste_

_Without arrogance or fear,_

_Only asking of his mistress_

_Just a scratch behind the ears._

* * *

 

Andraste was quieter at breakfast the next morning. Usually, when left to her own devices, Andraste tended to sing or hum, but that morning she was silent. She ate only a little, expression dark and withdrawn.

Her generals assumed that it was just the aftermath of her episode, she was known for bouts of melancholy. Small dark spots in her otherwise sunny demeanor.

Shartan, however, worried.

“Where is your husband?” he asked, settling on the ground beside her stool, one long leg stretched out in front of him and the other curled to his chest while he grabbed distant toes, feeling the pull through his hamstrings and back.

“He’s everywhere.” Andraste poked her egg bitterly.

“I meant the mortal one.” Shartan explained, switching legs. He turned his face up to hers. Spite was unlike her. She was more likely to get _angry_  than she was to get spiteful.

Andraste set her head in her palm and sighed. “Sorry. I just. . . _S_ _citte!_.” She clenched her hand to a fist and and bounced her forehead against it before biting down on her index finger.

“That bad? Did you two have a fight?”

Andraste shook her head. “No, I haven’t even, he’s off scouting with our boys I think.”

“You’re lying, Andraste.” Shartan sat up straight and looked at her. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”

“Let it be, Shartan. It’s. . . personal.”

“Hrmph.” He stood and curled a hand around her cheek, lifting her face to his. “If it gets worse, tell me. I will deal with it.”

“ _How_ , Shartan.”

“Anyway I have to.”

 

* * *

_But then old Maf'rath gets to plotting,_

_Tries to lure that dog away._

_But even as they trap the Prophet,_

_Her mabari never strays._

* * *

 

“Shartan!” Maferath had a booming voice. It matched the rest of him. He looked the way a chieftain should have looked, long wild hair and a beard you could lose a rabbit in. He was a head a shoulders taller than Shartan and three times as broad. When they’d met, he’d attempted to use his size as an intimidating factor to no avail.

_Lovroen mor_ , Shartan had growled. _Y fenen shem’el i shira saron_.

Maferath, who did not speak elvhen, had required a translation. Shartan’s tone when giving it had almost driven the two to blows on the spot. A pair of hot tempers might have endangered the whole alliance had Andraste not browbeaten them both to silence.

Their relationship had not notably improved in four years.

Still, Shartan unfolded from where he was reciting his memoirs to the scribe who believed _his_ story was as important as Andraste’s and wouldn’t let the topic die. He rolled his shoulders back and looked up at Maferath, one eyebrow cocked in challenge.

“Been a few days without your stink, _shemlen_. I was just starting to hope you’d been eaten.”

“I’ve no patience for your bladed tongue today, elf,” Maferath growled. “I need your skill.”

“And you’re admitting it. First time for everything.”

“My son reported a number of Tevinter scouts in the area. They must be dealt with.”

“I’ll send Neria and her men. They’re quicker and cleverer than any of your shems.”

“Go yourself.” Maferath crossed his arms. “It’s important enough you should be there.”

“I would, but my place is at Andraste’s side.” Shartan rested one hand on the pommel of glandivalis to prove his point. “I’ll have it seen to.”

Maferath growled again, but Shartan growled back.

“Bah, I have no time for this. Send your knife-ears and have done with it.”

 

* * *

_And there's Andraste's mabari_

_By the Holy Prophet's side._

_In the fight against Tevinter,_

_That dog would never hide._

* * *

 

He walked at Andraste’s side through the woods, bow drawn and an arrow nocked as they crept through the brush towards the envoy Maferath had told Andraste about. “Strange that he wanted you to do this on your own,” Shartan said. “Stranger still that you agreed.”

“I asked you not to come,” Andraste reminded. “It would have been better if it was just me.”

“Worried that an elf will sour the chance of conversion?” he snorted and regretted it immediately when Andraste shook her head, expression dark and mournful. “What is it?” He set a hand on her shoulder. “Andraste, what’s bothering you?”

“A bad feeling,” she bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Like this is the end.”

“We knew it was the end, Iseain.” He gave her a smile and pressed a small kiss to her temple. “Tomorrow we break the magisters.”

Andraste opened her mouth to speak and her eyes went wide. Then she stopped moving entirely. Frozen by a magister’s spell.

Shartan turned to confront to source and caught a spell to the chest. The air around him hardened and crushed the breath from his lungs. He was bent back pain wracking through him, helpless as they bound Andraste and dragged her away. Her screams were distant and echoed eerily in his ears where they penetrated the spell.

Shartan twitched a finger.

 

* * *

_They say the Maker sent him special,_

_Always loyal, without pride,_

_So he could be the sworn companion_

_Of the Maker's Holy Bride._

* * *

 

He held still, pretending to still be caught as the throat slitter came to finish the job. The youth was unprepared for Shartan to move and the way his eyes went dark when his blood splashed hot on Shartan’s face was satisfying.

Bow broken, Shartan drew glandivalis and stalked towards Minrathous on his own.

The gates were barred, but he had broken free from this city when he was younger and not as determined. He found the tunnels that lead to Minrathous’s sewer and listened to the jubilation that echoed on the streets above.

The Barbarian Queen was captured! The invaders would be turned back! There was nothing more to fear, praise the Dragons.

Shartan emerged from a tunnel near a slave house, he broke the neck of the guard and held a finger to his lips to silence a frightened little girl.

“You…”

“I have no time, da’len. They’re going to kill my friend.”

He stuck the the shadows as best he could and looked for a way into the prison where Andraste was being held.

But the fortress could not be assaulted by one man alone.

_Tuelanen_ , he screwed his eyes closed and prayed with a fervor he had never turned to faith before. _Am ash_.

The Creators were silent. Sealed away where they were no help, all except Fen’harel and Fen’harel didn’t grant boons, he inspired strength. Shartan threw his head back and howled, hoping Andraste could hear him. Hoping it would make her feel less alone.

What it succeeded in doing was grabbing the attention of some of the guards. Shartan taunted them and took off down an alleyway.

 

* * *

_Oh they thought the wounds had killed him,_

_But then he limped out toward the fire._

_And Hessarian, he shed a tear,_

_As that dog laid on the pyre._

* * *

 

Morning came and brought with it a parade through the streets of Minrathous. Shartan looked up from the last of the guards he had drawn off and slaughtered and caught the sight of Andraste. She was chained and beaten, tied to the back of a horse and made to walk barefoot through the streets while onlookers pelted her with rotted vegetables, mud and worse.

Shartan was bleeding. He had arrows in his belly, the shafts snapped off to keep out of his way. He wouldn’t leave her there.

_Sule’bell’ana, Iseain_

Shartan staggered through the street after the parade, his eyes fierce and his sword drawn and dripping. People screamed and he ignored them. He ignored the shouts, both the outraged and the overjoyed as Andraste’s “crimes” were read aloud. His eyes stayed on hers as she was bound to the pyre.

“Shoot him!” someone shouted.

“I’ve been shot,” Shartan snarled back.

The flames were lit, Shartan lifted his eyes to Andraste’s and smiled a little as her broken lips opened to admonish him.

 

* * *

_And there's Andraste's mabari_

_By the Holy Prophet's side._

_In the fight against Tevinter,_

_That dog would never hide._

* * *

 

Another arrow stuck him between the shoulder blades and Shartan fell forward onto the pyre. Andraste screamed and then coughed as the smoke started to fill her lungs. He swallowed his pain down and pushed himself up, breathing deeply and coughing up the smoke. Suffocation from the fumes would hurt less than burning alive.

“ _Tel’vara em, Iseain_.” He reached up to curl a hand around her wrist where it was bound behind her.

“ _Gis, ik wyl dwelana_.”

 

* * *

_They say the Maker sent him special,_

_Always loyal, without pride,_

_So he could be the sworn companion_

_Of the Maker's Holy Bride_

* * *

 

The last of his strength went into standing. The flames licked at his skin. He couldn’t see for the smoke, couldn’t breathe. But he reached up and wiped a tear from under her eye, leaving soot trails with his thumb.

His vision was swimming, but he kept his eyes on hers until he passed out in the pyre. Unconsciousness, and eventual death, were welcome reliefs from the pain.

 

 

_Yes that mabari's the companion_

_Of the Maker's Holy Bride._

**Author's Note:**

> Special Thanks to Fenxshiral for his work with both Project Alamarri and Project Elvhen. I used both in this project.  
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Rajelan-- Commander  
> Vindithra, Fenathe-- "I agree, Wolf." Wolf being a nickname for Shartan amongst his soldiers.  
> Shemlen-- A derogatory term for Human  
> Fokkit-- fuck,  
> du fokkit-- you fuck  
> Agmæagne wÿd mi-- Stay with me  
> Sule’bell’ana, ara Iseain -- until forever, my little fire. Little fire being Shartan's nickname for Andraste.  
> God næght-- good night  
> Scitte! -- shit  
> Lovroen mor y fenen shem’el i shira saron.-- bears are big, but wolves are quick and travel in packs.  
> Tuelanen, am ash. -- Creators protect her  
> Tel’vara em -- Stay with me  
> Gis, ik wyl dwelana -- yes, I'll stay


End file.
